A Piece of Me You Can't Have
by K. Constantine
Summary: FBI Special Agent Erica Hahn is called back to her hometown when a rash of child abductions become too much for the local police to handle.
1. Chapter 1

Title: A Piece of Me You Can't Have  
Fandom/Pairing: Grey's Anatomy/Callica  
Author: Constantine  
Rating: M  
Summary: FBI Special Agent Erica Hahn is called back to her hometown when a rash of child abductions become too much for the local police to handle. (AU)  
Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is not mine. It belongs to Shonda, ABC etc. No copyright infringement intended.  
Warnings: This story is very dark and twisty. Seriously. Think crime thriller where really bad things happen to really good people. There is also a mild reference to domestic violence.  
Author's Note: To anyone waiting on Blind Situation, I promise I'm working on it. It's about 90% done, but I'm not really happy with what I've written so far.  
Feedback: Yes, please!

1.

The tires of my black Charger slow to a halt. Crunching dirt and gravel signal my arrival, but the birds that usually sing the morning's praise are absent. The sun struggles to rise above the tree line. Clouds obscure its rays, protecting it from what I have yet to see.

I show my badge to the uniformed cop standing guard at the entrance of the trail. She recognizes my name, but we both pretend that those particular letters strung together mean nothing at all.

Chirping radios and clipped voices replace the missing sounds of nature as I follow the trail deeper into the woods. It's lined with cops. Cops who have been on the force for two years. Cops who have been there for twenty. But mostly, cops whose shoulders slope downward with an unaccustomed weight.

A large oak tree stands in a clearing just ahead. Its massive limbs, heavy with leaves and history, nearly touch the earth. A tire swing hangs from frayed, twisted rope, swaying back and forth in a familiar rhythm.

A young boy sits in the swing, his head leans peacefully as if with the whispers of superheroes and mystical creatures, sleep carried him off to a land far, far away.

Beneath the swing, two pools of blood add a garish print to the blanket of fallen leaves. The boy's tiny wrists are vertically slit with inch long gashes that no longer bleed. The open wounds suck in gulps of sorrow and humid air.

"We found him two hours ago," says a voice I used to know.

Callie Torres stops beside me, looking nothing like the girl I remember and nothing like the woman I thought she'd become. The badge at her waist glints in the tiny slices of sun that find passage through the ceiling of trees.

"William Bailey Jones, six years old. He went missing seven days ago," Callie doesn't look at me while she speaks, but I briefly look at her. There was a time when looking at her was the basis of my entire existence. "We used to call him Tuck," she says. Loss creeps into her voice.

Pieces of me shift, uneasy with being in such close proximity to someone who knew me before my badge started to cost more than its worth. Before the price began to show up in the crevices of my life that flourish in darkness.

When she finally looks at me, her eyes are clear and I see a brief mirage of the women we could have been. Possibly the women we were supposed to be.

"If the pattern holds, we have three days until he kidnaps another child. Four after that until we find the body," she continues.

I walk closer to Tuck. His brown skin is pale, his school uniform unblemished. His sneakered feet dangle limply, just above the ground. One shoelace is tipped red, sodden from grazes with blood soaked leaves.

I breathe in the scent of death without choking. It laces through me like an enemy whose existence I depend on. We've spent long months and years together with nothing but each other for company.

The medical examiner gently inspects his wrists. Death is not new to her either. I can tell by the way she looks at William completely, not just in the small, fleeting images the heart can handle.

"I'm going to call a preliminary time of death at 8pm last night," she stands and faces me. "Christina Yang," she offers in greeting.

"This is Special Agent Erica Hahn," Callie introduces me. The two women share a look that I can't quite decipher.

"Hmm." Coming out of Christina's mouth, the sound is more of a grunt than an exhalation. "I wish we could meet under better circumstances."

"That's usually the case with me," I finally speak. Christina's sharp gaze quickly refocuses on Callie. Another look I don't understand, though I get the feeling it might be better that way.

"Detective Torres, we've got a situation out here," the radio on Callie's hip interrupts.

"Go ahead," she says.

"Miranda is here," the metallic voice responds.

Callie blinks. It lasts only a breath longer than usual, but the small moment of extended darkness contains reserves to deal with the worst parts of this job.

"I'll be right there," she says, already walking.

I follow her back to the entrance of the trail, silence a companion to us both. When we arrive, the officer who checked my badge is physically containing a woman.

A mother.

They all look the same. Tears or no tears. Screams or no screams. They all look the same.

"Please, just... I want to see him," Tuck's mom pleads with the officer. With the trees. With the sun. With the Gods. Her knees, halfway to the ground. Her sobs stick in her throat, threatening to choke her where she stands.

"You pr... promised," she stammers when she sees us walking closer. "You promised!"

"Miranda, I--" Callie's apology is cut short by the slap stinging her face.

"You promised!" Miranda yells again.

Callie promised only to do what she could, of that I am sure. No cop who wants to sleep at night makes promises they can't keep. But Miranda doesn't know that anymore because grief has a way of breaking everything you used to understand. It overflows until the drowning seems the way it's always been. Until the breathing seems to be what might kill you.

"We... we did," Callie clears her throat, "we did everything..." The words get trapped, unwilling to face their inadequacy. They are never enough, but we say them anyway because saying them might be what saves us.

I kneel next to Miranda and Tuck stares back at me. "We will find who did this," I say. "I will find who did this."

It's the only promise I ever make and the day I break it will surely be my last.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

2.

I park my car next to Callie's in the lot of the Sheridan Police Department. I get out of the car and start walking toward the medium sized building. A large black banner with red, white and blue letters hangs above the double doors asking the citizens to "Join us for the 4th!"

"So, you're not going to say anything to me?" Callie asks followed by the loud thud of her car door

I stop and turn around just like I always did. Just like she knew I would. "What is there to say?" I ask.

"Typical," she says.

"Well, you know me. I hate to disappoint."

"If only that were true," her words slice into me, the cut surprisingly precise after fifteen years. Apparently, our history has rewritten itself since I've been away. I couldn't stay and she couldn't leave, but somehow I've been cast as the villain.

"Again, what is there to say, Callie?" It's the first time I've said her name out loud in longer than I can remember. It tastes grainy on my tongue, like taking communion without confessing my sins.

She hesitates and I see the decision being made in her eyes. "Nothing," she says. She walks around me and into the station. All I can do is follow.

--))--((--

The inside of the station is smaller than I remember. I took a field trip here in the eighth grade. We were supposed to learn about justice and doing the right thing and why drugs are bad.

My mom was there begging Officer Webber to let my dad out of jail. Her eye was still purple and black from where dad hit her, but she promised he didn't mean it. I used to believe her. I hoped Officer Webber was smarter me.

Callie leads the way to the murder room. I've seen too many. Sheridan probably thought they'd never see one. The room is filled with about seven cops. A few of them I recognize.

Alex Karev sits in a corner. He was destined for Olympic glory as a wrestler. His star would have been bright anywhere, but in Sheridan, it was damn near supernova. Now his face is grim with the death of a second child on his watch and his eyes are sunken with dreams deferred. I suspect they don't all belong to little Tuck.

George O'Malley sits shyly in the front row, eager to please. He was a few years behind me in high school. A few years behind everybody at all times it seemed. For some reason, I always thought when life was all written and the book finally closed, he'd be the only one of us who kept most of himself still in tact.

"Everyone, this is Special Agent Hahn," Chief Webber introduces me to the crowd. He is just as I remember, a decent guy with good intentions that sometimes get lost in translation. "She's on loan to us from the FBI, but I like to think we loaned her to them." His levity falls prey to gravity as the things everybody thinks they know about me pulls it to the ground. "Umm, Agent Hahn why don't you tell everyone what you intend to bring to this investigation."

I'm no longer accustomed to reciting my resume. I've been too good at my job for too long. My reputation precedes me which is just the way I like it. But, saying nothing is not an option, so I step closer to the Chief and survey the crowd once more before I speak.

"I've been with the Bureau for ten years. I've worked with the Serial Murder Unit for the past five. While at the SMU I closed eleven cases." My delivery is brisk and dry. Half the cops now sit with their arms crossed, the other half have new scowls in place.

I look over at Callie. Leaning against the wall within arms reach of the door, surprisingly she looks back.

"I'm not here to take over this case," I continue. "I'm not here to tell you how to do your jobs. I'm not here so that we can be friends and grab a beer at Joe's." I drag my eyes away from Callie and refocus on the crowd. "I'm here to catch the bastard who is brutally murdering young children in this town. I don't care if it ends with this bastard behind bars or with twenty of our bullets, but I assure you, making it end is my only priority."

Arms loosen from their tight holds, scowls smooth and I know my little speech hit its mark. They believe me, and they should, because most of what I said is true. I'm not interested in telling anyone how to do their job. If they're incompetent, I'll gladly do it for them. I'm not looking to make new friends. I don't care if we throw the perp in jail or if the poor excuse for a human being helpfully gives me a reason to empty my clip. Stopping this killer is my priority... but not my only one.

The Chief moves closer to my side. He looks at me like I just did something admirable.

"OK, everyone, you've got thirty minutes," the Chief says. "Grab something to eat if you need to, then bring every piece of info we've gathered on this case back to this room. Nobody's going home tonight until we've made some progress."

The life of cop in a town this size usually guarantees catching your kid's football game on Friday or taking your wife out to dinner when you said you would. To their credit, the mandatory OT doesn't seem to be an issue as everyone exits the room without so much as a word.

Callie maintains her spot against the wall. The Chief hesitates as the last of the cops file out. He looks between Callie and myself, his good intentions begging to get the best of him. Instead of speaking he simply pats my shoulder and leaves us alone.

It's my first real opportunity to stare at Callie without interruption and my eyes take it greedily. Her skin is bronzed, which tells me she spends more time outside than she does behind a desk. The tight jeans and blue button down do little to hide the physical strength just beneath the surface. Her hair is as dark as I remember and probably just as soft. Her lips--

"Are you the only person in the SMU?" she asks, cheating the rest of my appraisal.

"They're already split between a case in San Jose and one in Kansas City," I respond.

"And?" When we were teenagers, Callie could read me like a book. I don't know how I feel about the fact that she still can.

"And I volunteered to offer my assistance," I say.

"Why would you do that?" She asks, scanning my face for the truth.

I stop in front of Callie before I even realize my brain gave the command to walk. I leave enough space between us for an easy explanation if someone walks in. "Because," I start, but stop just as quickly when uncertainty twists my gut.

The twinge of pain wants to know if it's worth it to finish. Am I'm strong enough to deal with the answer I expect? It was a split second decision to leave my team and take this case. The call came in at three in the morning when I was in Kansas City. Two twelve year old girls were dead, another kidnapped. Zero leads for the local police.

Nothing I hadn't heard before. It's been years since evil has been able to take me by surprise. Mostly because I expect to find it everywhere. The expectation leaves me cold and distant, but able to stop at sipping one whiskey instead of drowning in the whole bottle.

Sheridan, FL. That's what caught me.

Just hearing the name flooded me with images I buried the day I left. They ran across my eyes like a film with missing scenes. Just enough to leave wisps of before. Before I spent four years studying criminal justice at Northwestern in some fantasy pursuit of the justice I couldn't find at home. Before I joined the Bureau, still looking, but no longer for myself. Before I saw my third dead body and didn't throw up. Before the first time I took someone's life and wondered if that's what my father felt when he took my mom's.

But if my childhood in Sheridan were only filled with darkness, the words 'I'll go' wouldn't have slipped out of my mouth before I really understood the reasons or the inevitable consequences.

"Because," I start again, "when we were eight we broke Mr. Carlson's window playing with your dad's golf clubs." Callie remembers. She tries to hide it, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth gives her away.

"Because when we were eleven you played Juliet and my mom let me buy you flowers." The small twitch eases into half smile.

"Because when we were fourteen you gave me my first kiss and then let Mark buy you an ice cream sundae." I stop here. Not by choice, but by fear. Saying anything more will unveil too much.

"And what else," Callie whispers.

"Because I've been trying to find somebody to replace you for the last fifteen years and it's the only thing I've ever failed at," I finish.

The gasp that escapes her lips sounds like everyday since the last time I saw her.

"Erica, I--" The door cracks open allowing the noise from the rest of the station to make an abrupt entrance.

"Sweetie, I--" Mark Sloan steps inside, silencing whatever Callie was going to say with the click of the door behind him. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were in a meeting."

I know his lie as if I said it myself. He looks me over, smile too big and plastic around the edges. A poster boy for whatever can be imagined, malleable to fitting in where he can.

"Erica Hahn," he says, "I guess the prodigal really does return."

"Mark." I settle for his name because it is the safest thing I can say.

"What are you doing here?" Callie asks.

"Since when do I need a reason to see my wife?" Mark rushes the question into the room like he's been waiting all day to ask it.

"You're wife?" My voice strains.

"Ten years next month," he grins.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

3.

His wife.

I've been siting at Cherry's for the past hour listening to the words play over and over in my head like a song I hate, but can't stop listening too.

His wife.

The Johnnie Walker I've been nursing has not done enough to ease the ache in my gut. I think it's a sensation I'll need to become accustomed to.

The music changes from a thumping baseline to a throbbing guitar and I turn to the stage to see what inspired the shift. The DJ announces the apparently long anticipated return of Bethany. With nothing but heels, cut-off shorts and a pink bra, the woman in question walks onto the stage.

I drain the rest of my drink and watch the show. Bethany is a pro, that much is obvious. Every eye in the club is riveted to every swerve of her hips, every fling of her long blond hair, every piece of skin that gets revealed.

When she finally makes her way up the pole, the only fabric left is a pink lace thong. Once at the top, she flips herself upside down and begins to undulate against the hard steel, removing the thong in the process.

I've been to a few strip clubs in my life and that is certainly a move I've never seen before. The crowd cheers and an eager college student walks up to the stage with a twenty dollar bill in his mouth.

Bethany slowly makes her way down the pole, inch by inch, head first, ass facing the audience. Once her golden hair grazes the ground, she stops and shakes her ass to the beat.

The song stops on a bang and Bethany finishes in a split. She collects money from men and the few women there with their boyfriends. I never really understood the appeal of watching the person you're with get a lap dance from somebody else, but I suppose I'm a little more possessive than most.

I track Bethany's naked body as she makes her way closer to the bar. The bartender already has her drink and robe ready.

"You make it a habit of walking to the bar naked?" I ask.

"It'll get me more tips tomorrow," she says after a long sip of her drink. She eyes me over the chilled rim. "Welcome back."

"I guess I could say the same to you," I smile, wondering if her journey here, to this place in her life, is as dark as mine.

"It's a long story."

"It usually is," I say. I grab her glass, take a small sip.

"I'll tell you mine, if you tell me yours?" There's a hopeful smile on her face that's a brief glimpse of the girl who was voted "most likely to succeed" during our senior year. But Isobel Stephens is a long way from the Bethany standing in front of me, so the smile slowly blinks itself away.

I should probably pay my bill and head back to my hotel room. Its already two in the morning. Chief wants everybody back at the station by seven and I plan on getting there at six.

"OK," I say, but in my head those two letters sound a lot like two words I can't stop hearing.

--))--((--

It's a nice place. Nicer than I would have thought a stripper in Sheridan's only strip club could afford.

"I didn't realize Cherry's paid so well," I say as I walk around the cream colored living room. Accents of dark blue are everywhere I thought pink would be.

"It doesn't." She fills a glass halfway with vodka. I accept the glass with no intention of drinking it.

The robe is long gone. In its place, a short skirt and tight tee.

"So," she says, making herself comfortable on a plush sofa, "where the hell have you been?" Her smile eases the sting out of the question.

"Where do you think I've been?" I ask. The sofa is as comfortable as it looks. I lean into the cushions as I sit. Izzie shifts a little closer. Enough for the heat of her bare legs to seep through my jeans. Enough for me to acknowledge that following a stripper home in the hours before dawn only ever leads to one of two things where a cop is concerned. Sex or an arrest. Though with the wrong cop, it sometimes leads to both.

"Well, according to Alex you've been working with the FBI for the past ten years and think you're God's gift to law enforcement."

I'm sure the whole town knows I'm here by now. Some things never change and I can't help the bark of laughter that escapes my lips.

"I figured you two would be married with five kids by now." The way Izzie's smile drops makes me think that was the wrong thing to say.

"I could say the same about you and Callie."

Our words are accusations wrapped in sticky truth. We sit trapped in uncomfortable silence that colors every inhale of breathe with the different choices that would have led us everywhere but here.

"So who fucked up? You or him?" I ask, shattering the thick silence.

"Me," she admits. "What about you?"

"I don't really know." I used to think it was Callie's fault for not following me, but maybe it was mine for running away. Maybe it was a stupid question to begin with. All that really matters is that Alex is wherever the hell he spends his nights, Callie is at home with Mark and Izzie is looking at me with a broken smile I think I can fix.

Fix like when I was eight and my dad broke my mom's arm and told me to put ice on it. Fix like the night Callie climbed into my bedroom window with strawberry ice cream and our favorite movie, but I could still smell Mark's cheap cologne on her skin. Fix like when I tell a mother I'm going to find the bastard that killed her son, but even when I do, her son is still dead.

Izzie finishes her vodka in one gulp. She rises halfway off the sofa and twists her body until her legs are straddling my hips. She settles on my lap, heavy with the mistake we're about to make.

Sex with Bethany can be as hollow and aimless as the Chicago night I spent against a brick wall of a nightclub with a woman whose name I didn't bother to ask. But sex with Izzie can only be manifest to the countless things I've done wrong and ruin the few I desperately want to do right.

Izzie leans forward, the intent of her kiss creates an instant and surprising heat between us.

"We shouldn't do this," I say.

"Probably not," she whispers, her breath flows into my mouth. It tastes like desire and fuck-ups, sweet and bitter. "But we will."

I could stop her, but I don't. Her lips glide onto mine with a soft caress when I expect a harsh crash. She settles more firmly onto my lap, her skirt rises to her waist. I settle more firmly into the kiss. I tangle her hair between my fingers and pull her closer. She rocks against me, her rhythm throbs slow and smooth like the deep baseline of Southern drenched blues. Like she wants the heat to smolder until the smoke intoxicates us.

Izzie opens the top button of my shirt, but stops halfway down. I use the moment to strip Izzie of her t-shirt and throw it to the floor. Her bra follows. My tongue delicately circles her nipples. I travel back and forth between them until I can't anymore. Until the tip of one is clasped between my teeth and the light tug forces her to thrust into me like she's already on the brink. She grabs my hand and guides it to the exact spot where she needs it most. The sound of her slick rise and fall around my fingers make me forget the two words that have been haunting me all night.

She comes, not with my name on her lips, but with a drawn out grunt and a sigh and a silent thank you as her tongue licks a hot trail across my neck.

We both needed this, that much I understand. What happens after we get it is what's left to be figured out.

TBC...


End file.
